The Making of Gary Smith
by Littlegolddandelion
Summary: Who exactly is Gary Smith? And why is he such an asshole? This is his story, from the beginning, of what made him who he is.


This is my first fanfiction. I have no idea what I'm doing, so please go easy on me.

Disclaimer: Rockstar owns everything

This story will be mostly about Gary, but I may include some Gary/Pete. Not sure.

This story will have multiple chapters.

Okay... here we go.

Gary always hated his house. He hated his mother. He hated his brother. He hated his father enough to send him in a rage that would last for days, and for good reason, but that'll be explained later. He hated the large rooms; tall ceilings and hallways filled with old, strange pictures of relatives and ancestors nobody in the house really even cared about. In the main hall, a huge portrait was displayed proudly on the North wall, and out of everything he hated, he hated that portrait the most.

It was the pride and joy of the Smith family, and for sake of tradition, his mother had gotten the best artists in the city to personally paint them all. It must have cost the family at least ten thousand dollars for the entire thing, but to his mother, it was priceless. Gary remembers the outfit he wore that day, when the snooty looking lady came and told them how to pose and what to wear. He had to wear a little suit, itchy and hot. For a six year old, it was really a miracle they got his to stay still enough to take the picture. Fortunately he didn't have to wear it for long. All the artist had to do was take a satisfactory picture to paint later, and back then he was compliant enough to do as he was told.

His father, dressed in Sunday best, sat in his favorite leather chair. To his right, his mother stood, holding one hand over her husband's, and the other down her side. She wore a long red dress, her hair in a style that made it curl around her slender features. She stood tall and strong, with a posture so foreign to Gary he didn't consider it to be even close to the woman that didn't raise him. To his mother's left was Jason, standing solemn behind the chair in a tiny suit. His hair was dark brown, quite similar to Gary's, obviously inherited from their father. The mother's hair was lighter, almost blonde. Jason had his mother's soft features, and had inherited her eyes. Lastly, was Gary, standing to the furthest left, with his explosion of messy hair somehow tamed with a comb and gel. At the time he was only an inch shorter than his brother, but being the youngest, the photographer gave Jason a block to stand on, and Gary was left being the smallest in a picture of giants.

His earliest memories were of his brother, Jason. They would play dinosaurs with toys in the attic. Here they hid, and roared like t-rexes, pretending to be chasing down their prey for dinner. Jason growled the loudest, wanting to drown out the screams and crashes of whatever was happening downstairs.

Gary wasn't allowed to bring other kids over to his house, but running around the neighborhood he managed to meet the other kids around his street. His father was often at work, and was out of the house until seven or eight, and the mother rarely kept them pent up during the day. So she would release them to play outside.

"Go have fun and make some friends," She would say. Gary didn't know why exactly she wanted the house to herself, but as a kid it really didn't matter to him.

There were very few kids, and all of them were older. Sometimes Gary and Jason would join them for a game of tag in the forest. Most of the time, though, Gary would be left alone, while Jason went off to play.

Gary didn't mind playing on his own. The other kids were incredibly stupid, and though they were bigger and faster than him, Gary found talking with them frustrating. They picked things up slowly, and no matter how many time you explained something, they still wouldn't get it. So he'd wander around the forest on his own, exploring the rivers, climbing trees and picking apart strange plants. If Jason were with him, sometimes they'd play dragons or wrestle. Most of the time he played by himself, and it suited him.

One day, Gary found a large stick, and began hitting stones around. In the rest of the forest, he could hear the block's boys running and yelling, but they sounded far away. He continues hitting rocks. He was getting the hang of it now, hitting rocks with the thicker ends and sending them flying. He found a smooth rock, and grinning wonderfully, he picked it up and hit it as hard as he could.

The rock sailed further than any of the others, and it disappeared off into the bushes. He expected a thump as it hit the ground or a thwack if it collided against the tree, but none of those noises were made. No, in the bushes he heard a large crack, followed by screaming.

All the boys rushed towards the sound, including Gary, who wanted to know who he hit. He didn't know what he expected, but he admitted it was pretty stupid staying around that long.

"He hit Johnny!"

"Get him!"

The boys rushed him, and then all of a sudden Gary's sense returned to him. He sprinted off, not exactly wanting to face off against five boys twice his size. As he tore through bushes and evaded trees, he vaguely wondered if his brother was included in the mob. That thought was cut short and he came to the edge of a forest, his path blocked by a fence.

He ran along the edge, knowing that boys were hot on his tail. When he spotted a tree with branches to climb he didn't hesitate. He climbed quickly and nimbly, thanks to his small size and quick limbs. The boys would follow him, though, so the only way to escape was to use the tree to hop the fence.

It was at this point that the boys started to throw rocks at Gary. One of them had probably yelled for vengeance, so rocks hit the tree, and sailed off, missing their mark. A stone stung his leg, causing him to almost lose balance, but he was so close. He swung onto the fence. It was tall and strong, but years of weathering had made the wood wobbly. He saw the grass below, and he was so close to safety, but then the stone hit him square in the back.

He lost his balance completely, falling on the other side of the fence and landing roughly on his back. He took sharp breaths, and rested his head on the grass, closing his eyes. He was safe, finally. He knew the boys would try and follow him, so he tried to get up. He cried out in pain, and looked down to see blood soaked clothes.

He stared at the injury for a while, touching the wetness and rolling it through his fingers. It was fascinating. A fresh wave of adrenaline rushed in with the gash, and while he stared at the blood a woman found him lying on the grass.

She called an ambulance, and it began Gary's first trip to the hospital. Rather uneventful, but in the end, even though they stitched it up, Gary got a rather cool looking scar. The gash had been from a nail sticking out of the wood that sliced him when he fell. It stretched all the way from below his hip to above his bellybutton up to the bottom of his ribs. Pretty cool, huh?

Gary's father was not a nice man. In fact, he was actually quite the asshole. According to anyone on the outside he was a banker, the breadwinner of a wealthy family that he took great pride in being the head of. Their family took great pride in perfection, and when it was not met, harsh punishments were dished out.

Gary never remembered a time when his father didn't hit him. He was a smart man, knowing his wife was expected to represent the family at dinners and parties, because she was a woman of a high-class. So his father was very careful where to hit her. Bruises would form on her arms, and thighs and torso. It really was nothing that was difficult for her to hide. The kids weren't so lucky. The boys never really had to be anywhere, and suspicious bruises could often be played off as the happenings of two rambunctious boys.

The father loved hitting them, and he loved to do it drunk. In his rage he would shout, and throw things, demanding perfection and demanding compliance. The boys learned quickly that when their father started making a racket to steer clear. Interacting with their father when he was in a rage was asking for a beating, so they would find creative places to hide and wait for him to calm down.

Gary remembered the time he and Jason got ice cream. Treats were a rarity in the Smith house, so it stuck out to him quite a bit. He must have only been four or five, but Jason had recently turned seven. After hearing a tinkle of music, which could only mean the presence of a sweet truck. Jason had shot out of his seat; scaring their current nanny and making her drop a tray of sandwiches. Before she could ask why, Jason had grabbed Gary's hand and had started to drag him out of the house and onto the street.

"Is that ice cream?" Gary had asked stupidly. Jason turned to him and gave him a smile that chilled. They continued to race down the street after the tinkling music.

"Come back in the house!" The maid called after realizing the children had all of a sudden run out of the house. It was too late, though. The boys were already around the corner, catching up to the slow moving sweet truck. When it slowed to a stop to sell to a teen, Gary turned to Jason behind him.

"How can we buy anything if we can't pay for it, dumdum?" Gary stopped in the street, clearly confused. That's when Jason turned on him.

Jason suddenly shoved him to the ground, using his own momentum and superior size to send Gary flying out onto the street. Jason hit him so quickly all he saw after that was a blur. Gary tried to stop from rolling onto the street, but Jason had pushed him hard. He tumbled for a bit; His knee skidded on the road, and to stop himself from moving further, he put out his hands, not knowing how scratched they would get in the process.

Gary's brain took a couple of seconds to register what had happened before he looked down in shock. Jagged rock and dirt made the blood that leaked out from his knees and hands dirty. His elbows were scratched, and his shoulder ached from hitting the curb. That's when the tears started, and before he could bawl, Jason had pulled him up by his wrists, and set him to his wobbly legs.

The truck had stopped, and in the time it took Gary to make a mess of his hands, the man had sold his ice cream to his customer, only to realize that there was a little kid holding a bawling five year old with bloody hands and torn knees.

That's when Jason did something amazing, something Gary would remember for all his years. At the time, though, he was hurt and angry, and it wasn't until Jason spoke that he figured out what was going on.

"Hey mister!" Jason called, with a breathiness that must have been forced, "We caught up to you, but my brother tripped and fell."

"Are you okay? Do you want some ice or water?"

Jason shook his head, "No, thank you. Our house is just around the corner. But we don't have any money! Could you please give us our ice cream? It would make my little brother stop crying."

"Of course, love!" The man said, he then turned to Gary and gave a soft smile. Gary had slowed his sobs to occasional sniffles, and the man gestured to the board of sweets, "What would you like?"

So the boys got their ice cream for free, and began the walk back. His chocolate fudge bar was heavenly, but holding it made his hands sting, and blood was still trickling down the worse of two knees. Gary took a couple of minutes to savor the taste but couldn't help but ask:

"Why did you push me down?"

Jason licked his cone.

"Because, stupid, he wouldn't have given it to us unless you were crying, or we had money."

Gary crinkled his brow at being called stupid, not to mention his anger at being pushed down into the street.

"You could have at least told me!"

"Look," Jason turned to him angrily, "You got ice cream, and that's a lot better than staying inside without it."

"You didn't have to be such a meanie."

"Oh no!" He shouted, "I was a meanie! Well how about you give me back your ice cream if you hate it so much?" He made a grab for the sweet in Gary's hands, only for Gary to jump out of the way in defense.

"No! Fine, I want it."

"Good. Now if Mom or Dad asks, you just tripped and fell. They don't need to know."

Though he couldn't really figure out how exactly, Gary knew he was different from people when he was still very small. Things he didn't care about made other people cry and scream. Things that made other children angry and break out into tantrums simply made him stare. He knew for a fact that normal children didn't catch butterflies to peel the wings and legs off. He spent his summer days catching grasshoppers and tearing off all their limbs, laughing as the body would squirm and writhe helplessly in the dirt.

Normal kids liked playing with their toys. Gary preferred setting fire to them, liking the thought of destructive playtimes.

He knew he should have been sad when his grandma died, because his mom was in tears for days. At the funeral everyone was crying for the dead woman in the coffin. However, he mainly just felt annoyed, but fascinated at their reaction. Gary guessed he and his brother were the only sane ones. They didn't cry when something bad happened to someone else. Why would they? It didn't affect them.

He became interested in the reactions of people. They were so funny, bursting into tears or becoming terrified at the silliest of things. He took advantage of this whenever he went to a store with his mom. She would take her eye off him to pick out some fruit or something, and he would slip away. Walking around the store, he would go up to a stranger and announce,

"My dad just died."

Or

"The other kids beat me up, but it's okay because I'm going to kill them."

Or

"My dog bit me and now I feel twitchy."

Or

"My mom is dead. Can you be my new one?"

And his personal favorite:

"My mommy says my brother is dead, but I'm not sad because I still see him in the corner everyday. Sometimes he plays with me."

The reactions were insane, to say the least. Gary loved to watch them, trying to understand why they acted the way they did. He often didn't have very much time to watch them. If a shopper were yelling, his mother would know why. Soon he would be dragged away after his mother made a hasty apology. Needless to say, his mother didn't take him shopping very often.

The first thing Gary could remember about his father was the fear. When he was young, everything about his father was dangerous. The danger of being beaten would be enough to make him hide around the house. Both Gary and Jason knew the best of the hiding spots, and if the father were angry enough to go looking after them, he would usually be too drunk search well. Thankfully, the house was huge, with old rooms and abandoned furniture. Even when hiding, terror would follow him. The fear would heighten every sense, and constrict his throat. In a horrible way the experience was thrilling. It was Gary against his dad, a game of wits that he had a chance of winning.

He sometimes lost, however. The father would find him and yank him out of his hiding place, and Gary would fight and struggle to get free. Or, he would come into a room and his father would decide to teach him a lesson then and there, shutting the door so he couldn't run. Kicks, punches and scratches would be attempted, but knees would find their way into his stomach, fists would knock his head and daze him, while hands would pin his arms.

For a moment the father would just pin him to the ground. Gary would be forced to look into his eyes, inches away from that horrible, smiling face. His eyes were sadistic, cruel and giddy at the chance of having the upper hand. The father would never beat him right away. No, he reveled in his power over the boy, and Gary would have to accept his defeat. Once he was finished, the beating would begin.

He feared many things about his father, but the worst was the night. His father would stumble in drunk, angry and Gary could count on all his self-control flying out of the window. The first time this happened was after Gary set the nursery on fire. He was seven. He had found a box of matches in the dining hall and decided to have some destructive fun. The alarm went off after lighting fire to all the stuffed bears and the fuzzy carpet in the middle. He got a beating for that, but it was surprisingly… light. He had no idea that his punishment wasn't over.

He was awoken in the middle of the night with his father's weight crushing him, pinning him down. Adrenaline had rushed into his system as he was torn from sleep. He tried gasping for air, but a forearm was cutting off all air. He made a choked garble, and finally found his father in the dark. Even then, he could still see those terrifying eyes. They were burning now, with intensity and incredible insanity.

"If you make a sound, I'll kill you."

With a look like that, Gary believed him.

And so pyjamas were torn off and he was then touched in horrible places. The pressure on his windpipe had lessened, but he could still barely breathe, and lights flickered at the back of his eyes. He got dizzy, and he felt black clouding his vision, but before he passed out, that invading hand was gone. In fact, the arm was gone too, and Gary gasped as the weight was lifted off him. He rolled over and retched, heaving up a small amount of bile onto his pillow. When he finished and looked around the room while wiping his mouth on his sleeve, his dad was gone.

Gary supposed he was supposed to feel sad, but he didn't. He didn't really even think he could cry. He just felt hollow. After losing his lightheadedness, he got up and did what he thought was necessary. He took off the pillowcase with vomit and chucked it in his bin. He realized how awful his clothes felt. His top had been torn open, and while he had previously pulled his pants back up, he decided he wanted to change.

So he changed, tearing off his ruined nightclothes and putting on jeans, a t-shirt and some sneakers. Without really thinking about it, he grabbed a small backpack and shoved his piggy bank and a coat inside. He wanted to leave, and he wanted to never come back.

After sneaking out, he spent the night wandering the streets. At around two or three, it began to rain, but instead of putting his coat on, he let the rain soak him. He continued walking, his shoes squelching while the rain thundered on rooftops and sputtered against puddles. It chilled him, prickling him with a wet cold that ran down his face and soaked through his clothes. Direction was completely lost to him, as the rain was so thick the only light seen through it was a faint glow of the occasional lamppost.

That night, he forgot about his father, and turned his thoughts to the rain. He walked all night through it, not even sure where he was headed. He was found by a police officer when he finally stopped to sleep, he had finally rested down under a playground when he was grabbed. Thinking it was his dad, he screamed.

The sun was coming up when Gary was driven home. After hopping in the car and giving his address, he blatantly ignored all of the officer's questions and fell asleep against the window. He didn't get a beating when he returned, because he had kept his mouth shut.

I hope I didn't make too many errors. Thank you for reading if you got this far!


End file.
